


what thou and I did, till we loved

by clockworkmoon



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon Compliant Violence, Christian and Islamic references, History, M/M, Saint george - Freeform, The First Crusade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 07:02:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25346656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkmoon/pseuds/clockworkmoon
Summary: "So when Nicolo heard one of his fellow knights say ‘he’s Jacob wrestling with an angel” he looked at the tired, dark face of his opponent, his hair a wild mess plastered with sweat, yet his eyes still glinting with fiery passion, and he thought, I must be."orNicolo and Yusuf spend over two years trying to kill each other.And then, Jerusalem falls.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 61
Kudos: 667





	what thou and I did, till we loved

Nicolo wasn’t there when the Pope announced his vision in _Claremont_ ; it was his father and the oldest brother who went to the council, and it was his father’s decision to send Nicolo off on this mission. The Pope needed skilful knights, and stopped at nothing to inspire them for his fight; he spoke of honours, and salvation, and when that wasn't enough, he tempted them with riches of the East. Nicolo would had volunteered anyway. He was a pious man; he understood the importance of keeping the Saracens at bay, at all costs. He believed with his whole heart this need was what inspired every other knight that decided to set out on this journey.

The pilgrimage to Jerusalem was long, and tiring, and full of uncertainty. Yet, Nicolo held his family’s banner high, and didn’t even waver, feeling proud to be a part of this mission. 

“It is my duty to honour my Father in this battle for the Holy Land”, Nicolo whispered, looking down at his chest and the red cross ornamenting it with every chance he got. 

His faith hadn’t wavered through the harsh year of their travel from Europe. Nothing made him believe less; not the conditions, or the slow discomfort of his saddle, or repetitive food, or even the ever changing weather. In the moments of weakness, Nicolo thought of _San Siro_ , its tall tower lording over the other buildings in the city; he would never allow anyone to desecrate or destroy it. He heard the preacher’s warnings of what the infidels did to the Holy Sites in Jerusalem. Wherever they went, they left destruction in their wake, this barbarian, maniacal, Saracen horde. Nicolo knew they had to be stopped.

In the quiet morning hours, when the knightly pilgrims were catching sleep, he would sometimes just sit and look at the symbol on his chest, or the banner flying above his head, thinking of making his family, his city proud. He would caress the soft red velvet of the cross and murmur prayers to Virgin Mary, and ask patronage and safety of Saint Demetrius. The red on his chest, to him, bore a sign of his passion and love for the cause, for God. The white meant purity and a starvation for holiness, and these traits meant a certain salvation, if only he could make good on the pledge of bringing the Holy Land back under Christian rule. Not just that; to save its people from themselves; to make them believe in the word of the Lord. Everything else was death, as they would be condemned to Hell otherwise.

By the time he would die for the first time in 1097, he had learned that not everything was as simple.

It wasn’t the conditions; the weather, the saddle, nor the food that wavered his spirit. It was looking at the wreckage left by the mob led by that horrible hermit, the Christian mob of people who under the banner of God were commanded by their greed; Christian mob that stole, raped and pillaged. But this, the _People’s Crusade_ , Nicolo was still able to explain to himself. These were poor, uneducated people after all; sinful women, and starving men, and people who didn’t have anything left in their lives. Lives so sad and full of hardships, that even believing in God couldn’t soothe them. 

It was seeing his fellow knights enjoy the sites of the slaughter a bit too much; it was their boisterous exclaims when looking at the expanse of the Byzantine Empire, travelling closer and closer to their base at Constantinople, how they would portion the lands with their eyes, as if it was already theirs. Where Nicolo saw wonders of nature, they saw chances at making their fortunes. This, Nicolo couldn’t understand; they needn't for much; all of them came from aristocratic families, and they could live if not in riches, then at least comfortable, till the rest of their lives. The greed of it all nauseated Nicolo to his core, and by the time they started the siege of Antioch, his spirits were low. The sickness claiming every third man didn’t help; not did the ever so diminishing numbers of the knights, who seemed to be sparser with every night that went on. 

He wanted to be back in his city, where he could be a pious man without having to bear the trials of witnessing the horrors of this pilgrimage. How he missed the tall, colourful towers of Genova, he missed the smell of the sea, and he missed the sound of the choir at San Siro. 

And then, during the first long, monotonous months of the siege of Antioch, an alone Saracenic arrow didn’t miss _him_. As it pierced his chest, he spent the night in his tent, where his servant had dragged his body, and he prayed to Demetrius, and Saint George, and Virgin Mary, and all the Saints to allow him to live through the night. He bargained for his life with an angel, who instead sent him a vision of a bearded man whose face was dark, mouth stretched in a smile, dark eyes glistening and dangerously beautiful; and so he pleaded with the angel _I never have these thoughts unless deep asleep at night_ , he had said, _do not torture me_ , he had begged; _help me to abide_ ; and he bargained _Let me live, and I will inspire them all to Holiness_. 

The angel was mute and uncaring, and just sent him more visions of the man; smart fingers playing something that looks like _Plakoto_ ; then visions of hands that are holding a sword yet seem to be too delicate to had belonged to a warrior for a very long time; they seem strong, but more suited to be stained with ink rather than blood; and to be sampling merchant textiles rather than grabbing at the Crusader’s gear. So through the night, which felt more like a century, he prayed and cried and bargained some more. At the end of the night, he died. 

And then, he woke up.

In the morning, there wasn’t even a scar. Nicolo firmly believed that had been a signal from God; a miracle, to keep him strong and grounded in his faith. The days that followed were mostly waiting, but whenever they got attacked by the Mosul, Nicolo made sure to be at the front of his ranks, to show courage to these who were thinking of desertion; to keep the spirits high despite the hunger, loss of hope, and the plague wreaking havoc in their ranks. 

Then, a priest that was following them announced he had had a vision of Jesus Christ, who showed him a hidden treasure. They found the spear that was used to pierce their Lord’s side, buried deep in a fresh hole in the forest, and it sparked new hope and passion into many of their knights. Nicolo felt that two miracles so close to each other couldn’t had been a coincidence, and so he fought even more viciously; they were too close to victory now. 

The arrows still hurt when they pierced him, and he felt the sword and axe stabs all the same. And with each strike, Nicolo was dying, but then he was coming back quicker, and by the end of the month since the night he first died, it didn’t take that long to heal at all. He didn't have time to think, or dream; fighting was all he got reduced to. When the knights started whispering about _Saint George_ aiding him in the battle, Nicolo didn’t want to disprove them. After all, he did promise God to inspire fellow soldiers into piety and courage.

The next battle of Antioch were to be the last one. They knew they couldn’t hold up for much longer. They either had to take Antioch, or they were to be taken by the soil that birthed the foundations of the city. But they all felt the presence of Jesus Christ and Saint George with them, and with the last effort, after months and months of starvation and heat, they won.

The enemy army retreated, but not without their own last effort to make some damage, and retaliate. It was close to dawn, and Nicolo, sitting high on his white horse, the red of his cross no longer visible on his chest, under the layer of mud, and blood, and dirt, had spotted a Saracen charging at him. 

They clashed, and fought for a day and a night, and at this stage Nicolo battled many men from the other side, who were skilled, and strong, and if this one was lacking any of these skills, he was learning fast, and mostly, was as relentless as Nicolo. He seemed possessed, but so did Nicolo, and maybe if God sent Nicolo this miracle of resurrection to inspire their ranks, he wanted to even out the playing field, and allowed Satan to take over his Saracen. For the Lord will always be victorious, but He is merciful, even in the face of such heresy as this war.

After the first hour of this encounter, Nicolo realised the enemy seemed to bear the face of the man from the tempestuous dream the angel had sent him on the night he didn’t die. He stumbled upon the shock of this realisation, and the Saracen struck him dead. 

When Nicolo got up, the Saracen didn’t look too shocked. Mostly annoyed. And he was as beautiful as he was in Nicolo’s dream, even if the expression on his face was more fierce, and focused, and somewhat hateful.

After a day, it seemed like both of them should’ve had died hours ago, and both were just too stubborn to do so.

So when Nicolo heard one of his fellow knights say, _he’s Jacob wrestling with an angel_ , he looked at the tired, dark face of his opponent, his hair a wild mess plastered with sweat, yet his eyes still glinting with fiery passion, and he thought, _I must be_. 

When the remaining Seljuks were finally called off, the Saracen turned around on his horse and galloped to join his forces. But first, he sent an arrow Nicolo’s way, as if to have the last word. When Nicolo took it out of his body, he had felt a bizarre urge to smile. 

As the Seljuks disappeared in a cloud of dust, they left Antioch open for the Crusaders to conquer, at last. Nicolo didn’t take part in the festivities that followed, even though the princes and knights alike commended him on his bravery and strength. For the first time in a year, Nicolo didn’t hear them talking about pillage, and expansions, but praising God and thanking Saint George with songs and prayer, and for that Nicolo felt grateful, knowing he was doing the right thing. 

He chose to spend the night in his tent, on the site of the battlefield; not caring much for the hymns, and the feast, or getting his share of the spoils of the city. He remembered the way the Saracens were described and the imagine horrors they would bring upon Europe; he saw the irony of it all, of how his knights filled the role of the outside intruders, taking over the riches of this city, and yet;

 _better Antioch than Genova_ , was his last thought before falling into long needed sleep.

By the time they had arrived at the Jerusalem gates two years later, the Crusade’s numbers were much smaller, their ranks deployed with famine, desertion, plague and war, yet they seemed more hopeful and stronger in their faith than they had been in the safety and abundance of their European homes. They all believed they couldn’t lose now, not with Saint George and Demetrius fighting alongside them, not when being filled with the Holy Spirit with every mile closer to the gates of the Holy city. 

Every step of the way, for every port city town managed to take with violence, and for every port town they had taken peacefully, the Saracens awaited them, and every time Nicolo ended up fighting for days and nights, the same Saracen, that Unholy Angel to his Jacob. They never exchanged a word, yet Nicolo felt a a sinful thrill each time they crossed their paths, upon looking at that face, with each _clang_ of their swords. 

From time to time, after the Seljuk armies had given up up and retreated, leaving the Crusade to take over the new town, he saw the Muslim merchants and common folk look after the Saracen Angel, and heard the Arabs whisper, _Jirjis_. They did so with an air of wondrous piety equal to when his fellow knights looked at Nicolo and talked of _San Giorgio_.

When the Crusade had arrived at the gates of Jerusalem, at first they took days to march around the walls, praying. Right then, they all believed to be descendants of Joshua, who lowered down the walls of Jericho with his faith. But instead of another miracle, it was Nicolo’s brother, among many other Genovians, who reached the shore of one of the port towns the Christians had taken, and on the Genovan ships they brought wood and stone to help with the siege. After that, it took days to finish building catapults, and towers matching the depleted walls of Jerusalem, and then it was a matter of mere days to breach the walls that kept them from fulfilling their pledge to the Pope and God.

On the 15th July of 1099, after three years of the blessed pilgrimage, after three years of their hardships, the Jerusalem had fallen.

Nicolo wasn’t the first one to charge inside the walls - him and the Saracen were fighting again, locked in a vicious duel, a quick stab and slash and clang of the metal against metal. He was more than certain now that the other man wasn’t just lucky, or skilful - Nicolo witnessed him die and raise up, same as he himself did. The ground around them turned into a muddied pool of blood and dirt, and he was so exhausted he could barely hear his thoughts anymore. All he focused on was the man in front of him, who seemed equally thrilled with this ordeal as Nicolo was himself; even if he didn’t want to admit it. 

For hours, all he could hear was their laboured breathing, and cold sounds of metal scraping against metal, and then it _ceased_ , as abruptly as never before. As if turned into a pillar of salt by God, the Saracen froze, stopping the fight; he turned his head towards the fallen city and whispered something to himself, too quick and quiet for Nicolo’s weak knowledge of Arabic to understand. And then, the Saracen threw his axe on the ground, and without as much as a second glance at Nicolo, he ran towards the breach in the wall, jumping over the rubble that used to be a part of the fortifications.

Nicolo snapped out of his stupor, and suddenly he was flooded with the _cacophony_ of what had been happening around them all this time;

the shouts and laughter of the Christian knights, varying in languages and dialects, their euphoria and righteousness equal in volume only to the desperate cries of women and children of the city. Nicolo had a faint understanding of Arabic, only what he had learned during that year he tried to study medicine under Constantine the African at the monastery; but he could understand the pleas for mercy of the innocent citizens. He would understand them even without any prior knowledge of their language, for the desperation and horror on their faces was more telling than the most common _lingua franca_. 

When he followed deeper along the streets of Jerusalem, the sight that greeted him at every corner was monstrous. There were countless bodies on the streets, hanging out of the windows, thrown out of their beds and houses; women with clothes ripped to shreds, and throats cut, children with stab wounds clutched in their dead mothers’ arms; and old men hanged, or laying down with broken necks. The blood of these bystanders, these victims, had already ran deep into the dirt and seeped between the stones. Yet even the Earth seemed to have had enough, as if she couldn’t take it anymore, and the streets seemed to be overflowing with the angry blood of the innocent. These weren’t the infidel militant hordes set to destroy his home, as warned by the priests, Nicolo realised, to his horror. 

This time, he couldn’t bring himself say that he would rather see this than to allow Saracens into Genova. 

Nicolo had died and killed, hundreds of times by now, all in the name of God- but he didn’t believe He would be pleased with this slaughter. It wasn’t Nicolo’s place to judge His plans, but ;

the wet noises of Christian blades cutting throats all around him didn’t sound like a prayer. The hymns his fellow knights sang while they lay down the massacre, while equally loud to the cries of the fallen of the city, didn't seem holy.

Yet all he could do was to stand still, look around helplessly, and feel immense guilt at having inspired so many of his fellow knights into faith strong enough to get them here. He felt guilt that his brother was onboard the ship that delivered the needed materials to build the catapults to destroy the fortification. 

He felt guilt, hearing His fellow knights shout out Saint George’s name while spearing innocent, unarmed people, and painting the white walls of the Holy City red and black with blood of its occupants. The red on white didn’t seem like the symbols of purity, and love, and passion, anymore.

Nicolo was finally standing on the sacred soil of the Holy Land, and yet he felt he couldn’t be more removed from holiness. 

*

Yusuf’s only thought was to try to keep as many people alive as he could manage. He studied medical texts for years, and was now trying to put it to use. He never practiced, back in his youth; Yusuf came from a proud merchant line, and his father trained him to be one, but the unspoken mantra of his family was knowledge was power. He knew many languages, most of them to make bargaining smoother, which was needed for someone of his trade. But as many of his people, Yusuf knew written word, and was fascinated with poetry and the medical texts, the secrets of the mind and body, the careful charts and drawings of what laid inside. 

The written pages of theory that he memorised weren’t enough right now, as this felt more like the city was being rained down with bodies of people of Jerusalem; Muslims, Jews and Christians. The barbarians that breached the city; this horde; they didn’t even care for bringing the word of their false god to Yusuf’s people. They wanted to cleanse the city of anyone who looked different than they did; for they thoughtlessly, carelessly slashed the throats of Muslim and Jews and Arab Christians alike. Their barbaric cries, _Hallelujah_ , filled his ears with horror, and Yusuf thought: “This is what _Jahannam_ must sound like.”

Where he couldn’t succeed saving lives, he encouraged the ones that could or wanted to recite _shahadah_ , to allow them, with their last breath, the testimony of faith; if he couldn’t save their bodies, he hoped that _Malak al-Maut_ , the _Angel of Death_ , would be gentle with them, these innocents being slaughtered by the violent intruders. And when they would draw their last breath, he moved as many bodies as quickly as he could, one in front of the other, not caring for the barbarians rummaging the city. He owned them proper burial. He owned them safe passage. He proceeded to spend time over the fallen bodies to say the familiar verses of _sura Al-Fatiha_. Yusuf’s only need, his duty, right then, was to help as many as he could, and to honour them in their death.

Yusuf noticed the lone Crusader, who must had followed him inside the city. He was silently witnessing Yusuf’s efforts, but Yusuf decided not to acknowledge him. He didn’t have time to indulge in their never ending fight. From what he gathered, with the way either of them didn’t seem to die, Yusuf was going to have forever to fight this Christian fanatic. Right now, the important thing was honouring as many fallen as he could, for as long as he could.

The man Yusuf was tending to at the moment was a man close to death, but at the same time, he turned out to be a stubborn one. He refused _shahadah_ , and wished for a priest. 

The solution seemed simple.

“Hey, _Priest_ ,” said Yusuf in Arabic, in the direction of the undying Crusader. “He’s a Christian.”

The priest looked at him, surprised, and after a while, he either translated Yusuf’s words in his head, or noticed that the Arab Christian wasn’t whispering the words that the others seemed to recite, and decided to come closer. He knelt next to the dying man, offered him a small iron cross, and Yusuf gave them space, moving along to the next dead, or the nearly dead, body. 

Yusuf overheard them praying in Latin, and noticed the Crusader’s paler hand squeezing the brown one. Later, the priest made a sign of a cross on the man’s forehead, and got up.

“I am not a priest,” said the man, his Arabic slow, and not very well pronounced, as if never used before out loud in a conversation. 

Yusuf shrugged. “They need any comfort they can get. It’s the least you can do, now.”

The Seljuk army that Yusuf got recruited into, followed the trail of destruction left in the wake of the Crusaders march. Some towns decided to give themselves up willingly, the ones that didn’t underwent horrible destruction. Yusuf witnessed all this, and his heart was full of compassion for the people of these various kingdoms, who gave in just to be spared from the slaughter, and the destruction of their livelihoods. For the last three years, Yusuf had been witnessing the fruits of the horror that was the Christian Crusade. 

And for the last three years, him and the non-Priest had spent countless days and nights, fighting. The scenery changed, but their fighting spirit never wavered. Sometimes, when they were in the fervor of their one-on-one battles, Yusuf forgot what they were even fighting for - where they were, who they were, what _sides_ they were on. What mattered, was the fight, their spirits, the absolute focus, the relentlessness. The thing that divided them, bonded them as well. Two sides of the same coin. 

Somehow, Yusuf thought it seemed suiting that the other man couldn’t die, either. They represented something bigger than themselves- the ongoing fight between their cultures, their people. And he felt that as if one of them won, and killed the other, the war between their sides could stop, as well. Some nights, Yusuf wished it was the Priest. Some other nights, he wished it was him, just for the sake of ending this onslaught, this destruction. And other nights, he hoped they could go on, like that, forever.

With time, Yusuf’s fellow men started to call him _Jirjis_ , for he seemed to be the one who in order to fight the false religion, was honoured by a _malak_ with power of resurrection, to spite his enemies. Even if his inability to die wasn’t looked upon with kindness, he was spared punishment as they believed that the second they win, Yusuf would be allowed to die. After all, so did _Jirjis_ , it took many tries, but he was allowed to rest in the end, and wait for God to judge him and eventually let his _ʾākhirah_ into Heaven.

Yusuf wasn’t sure if that was the reason he couldn’t stay dead. After all, the man with the red cross on his chest; his enemy, seemed to wield the exactly same privilege of resurrection as he did. But that only made it all the more poignant to Yusuf, to prove himself as a good man; whether it was by battling the not-Priest, or by allowing the people of Jerusalem to have a chance for safe afterlife passage. It didn’t matter which way, but if he had to live forever, he would do so with piety and love for Allah.

After three years of constant fighting and of killing each other, Yusuf thought it was nearly poetic how the not-Priest decided to join him now, in this tentative truce, and help with this multicultural, mass burial. They move slowly; some that were still breathing required last rites, some required _shahadah_ , some asked the Crusader to recite them _Psalm of David_. And as such, they divided their role; Yusuf moved the Muslim bodies to a respected position where he could say _sura Al-Fatiha_ , and then the finish with two _du’as_. The not-Priest murmured the last rites and he anointed the Christians with the sign of the cross, and whispered the _Psalms of David_ to the Jews. They didn’t stop for what seemed like days and nights, but the bodies never ended. 

Yusuf wasn’t sure why no one stopped them; but then, he realised that the Knights of the Red Cross were too busy killing, and then praying at the Holy Sepulchre, and then feasting, and lastly dividing their spoils and arguing over who should control the Holy City. They were loud in their fights as they were loud in their prayers. They sounded boisterous when finding riches of the East, hidden treasures of textiles and gold, stashed away in the houses and around various Holy Sites. Yusuf didn’t understand fully what they were saying, but he knew it must had been blasphemous.

Latin was a language he should’ve had learned, but his head was already filled with Arabic, and Turkish, and Persian; he could communicate in simple terms in Iberian, and Italian. He never knew Latin to an extent to understand the Christians’ prayers.

They were currently sitting down, a brief rest between the thankless task they undertook with relentless humility. Yusuf turned his head to regard the man sitting across from him.

“What are they saying, _Priest_?” asked Yusuf. 

“I am not a priest,” the man repeated, this time his Arabic spoken with more confidence, and Yusuf flashed his teeth in a grin. 

The not-Priest paused. “Call me _Nicolo di Genova_.”

Yusuf thought about how for the last three years, their lives intertwined, as they fought, and they killed, and they rose again, and now they buried the innocent bystander victims of their war. So, in response, he stretched his hand, and said “ _Yusuf Al-Kaysani_.”

After a brief consideration it had taken Nicolo to regard the hand, he clasped it. 

The connection of their hands, of skin touching skin, was akin to a deep veneration. When they looked into each other’s eyes, there was a matching understanding and devotion, and they knew something just made it into a full circle;

and it filled them both with serenity in the face of the monstrosity that surrounded them. 

Then, the voices of the Westerners were once again loud and proud, ringing in their ears, echoing around the empty and eery, deadly silent streets of the once busy, colourful, and diverse life of Jerusalem. The voices nearly succeeded in defiling whatever just passed between them.

“What are they singing of, then? _Nicolo di Genova_?” mused Yusuf, his eyes towards the Holy Sepulchre.

“They are thankful for fulfilling their pledge. The promise. To win the Holy Land back,” replied Nicolo, yet he didn’t seem victorious.

Somehow, he seemed as defeated as Yusuf felt.

“Your _god_ must be very proud…” Yusuf murmured to himself under his breath, in Persian. 

Nicolo either didn’t hear, or didn’t care to ask for translation. Instead, as they walked around the streets, searching for any survivors, he asked:

“Why did you ask me to help? You could’ve just left them be.”

Yusuf knew he meant the Christians, and Jews. 

“I don’t know what you do in the West, but here, it’s the business of peace. You can practice your religion, but if you aren’t Muslim, and don’t want to convert, you pay _jizya_ ,” explained Yusuf, as slowly as he could. Whenever he remembered a word in Italian, he used it. Nicolo seemed grateful for that, but tried to follow the Arabic as best as he could.

“No one will kill you if you follow these rules. They could’ve practiced they religions, even if they have their hearts turned to a wrong deity, in my opinion. But I believe in compassion. Everyone is entitled to peace after death. If they did wrong with their lives, they will suffer for it anyway. There is no point for them to suffer in death. Death should be a glorious moment of freedom, the last step before the judgment of _qadi_.”

Nicolo nodded his head.

As they walked, Yusuf looked over the impromptu small, wooden crosses Nicolo had put together to mark the Christian graves, the bodies they buried in the shallow dirt. 

Nicolo’s pale hand was stark in the contrast of the dark wood as it stroke it, as it was when he had touched the bodies, to anoint them, or close their eyes. 

“They… _We_ killed our own,” said Nicolo. 

It sounded like a very simple sentence in Arabic, but Yusuf understood the pain behind it. 

Nicolo continued, after a pause. “They swore there was nothing but Saracens, wanting to wipe Christianity out. Defiling the Holy Land. _Destroying_ the Holy Sites.”

Yusuf didn’t need to ask who said it. In the end, it didn’t matter; whether it was a king, a leader, a false prophet; it hurt to be lied to. 

He put his hand on Nicolo’s arm. “I know that the greater good needs sacrifice. Expansion often needs blood. But _this_ ,” Yusuf’s arm painted a broad stroke in the air, indicating their surroundings. “This seems like too big of a sacrifice, for any sort of good.”

“So it does,” admitted Nicolo, allowing himself to be led away from the drying blood on the white walls, and the faintly crosses, swaying in the wind, trembling in their shallow foundations; bound into shape with whatever cloth Nicolo could had harnessed.

The slaughter of Jerusalem had lasted ten days, altogether. It took Yusuf and Nicolo five times as long to honour the dead, at least the ones they managed to find, before they were desecrated by the Crusaders who had ended up burying all the different denominations of Arabs _en masse_. At least the ones that the Knights didn't just throw outside the walls of Jerusalem, hoping for them to be eaten by wild animals. 

Two weeks in, in the dead of the night, Nicolo allowed himself to go to pray at the steps of The Church of the Holy Sepulchre. 

Yusuf watched as Nicolo leaned down, and trembled as he kissed the soil, and then knelt, and kept this exact position for an hour, or two, a long time; as he wept, whispering prayers with ferocity fueled by hunger for salvation and forgiveness. The words left his throat in a rush, _mea culpa_ , he choked on them, and yet it seemed like the only thing that kept him from drowning in his despair.

Nicolo rose as the dawn was nearing. But before they left, it was then his turn to observe Yusuf, as he positioned himself in the direction of Mecca, and lost himself to _Salat al-Fajr._ Yusuf knew the praying looked different, but with each bow, and change of position, and each phrase of his _salat_ , he knew that him and Nicolo must’ve prayed for fundamentally similar things. 

He wondered how his _salat_ rang in Nicolo’s ears, and if he understood, as Yusuf did watching him pray, that they shared the same level of devotion.

After the sunrise, Yusuf had showed Nicolo the way to Mount Zion, and then, told him the story of Al-Aqsa Mosque, the miracle of it still standing; how many Muslim rulers kept on rebuilding it with reverence, even as earthquake after earthquake tried to wipe it away. He told Nicolo how it was the last stop of Muhammed, and how Yusuf somehow hoped it would be the last stop for him, when he was old; how, as a child, holding his mother’s hand, years ago, when he first visited this Holy Site, he thought that he also wanted to be as close to holy as possible.

In turn, Nicolo told him about the First Christian Church, buried deep underneath the Holy City; of how he revered the images of this site, back in the dark chambers at _Monte Casino_. He told him of how the Holy Sepulchre stands on the side where the crucifixion of Jesus took place. Nicolo was surprised when Yusuf had said, “ _ʿĪsā ibn Maryam_ , yes. We know of him.”

*

After they couldn’t find any more of the fallen ones to relieve in Jerusalem, unanimously, they decided to move outside of the walls; there, they spent another month or two, burying the bodies, some rotten, some half eaten, but still deserving of burial, no matter state or their denomination. 

In the short breaks between, they talked. Yusuf told him about his family; his passion for reading; his passion for drawing. He told Nicolo about his merchant travels, and where he picked up all the languages that he knew. He spoke of his love for Allah. 

In return, Nicolo told him about studying inside the strong walls of Monte Cassino, underneath the beautiful paintings and mosaics, reading Greek and Arabic medical texts under the steady gaze of the elderly monks. He told Yusuf of how he had wanted to stay there, to become one of them, but then his father sent back for him, as the Pope was gathering the nobleman for the Crusade.

They discussed the dreams they both had, dreams of the two warrior women, fighting side by side. They debated their meaning. As Nicolo caressed his hand, he told Yusuf how he dreamed of him the night he didn’t die; Yusuf said he dreamt of Nicolo as well, and knew back then that they were destined to follow each other forever, until they ceased to exist.

And when there were no more bodies to be buried, no more prayers for the dead to be said in the shadow of their Holy City, Yusuf and Nicolo gathered their belongings, and they moved on, as one, as they would from now on for centuries, for a _millenia_. 

On their journey away from Jerusalem, they talked, and prayed to their God. They debated the course they should take; but in the end, they settled on Libya, as their first stop. 

Yusuf’s main reason was to visit the first mosque in the process of being erected in the Sahara region; but also, Nicolo suspected, because he couldn’t stop talking about how great the dates from Awijla were, and wanted to prove his point.

And with each day that passed, Nicolo dreamt less of the towers of Genova, until one day he didn’t dream of it at all.

And with each day that passed, Yusuf thought about his family less and less, until he didn’t dream of them at all.

And they both admitted that their need to go back to what once was isn’t strong, and never really was; not since they discovered each other as their personal miracles.

And one night, when both of them hurt too much to bear; already weeks of walking away from Jerusalem, yet heads filled with the horrors they witnessed the last three years; they turned to each other, and Yusuf spent the night away, kissing his prayers all over Nicolo’s skin. 

Weeks later, Yusuf learnt that Nicolo’s people compared him to a holy figure, _San Giorgio_ , and when he heard what the saint’s story was, he laughed, and told Nicolo in turn how his people called him _Jirjis_. They discovered that it may had been the same man, serving the same purpose, under a different name, in different religions. 

Since then, Yusuf liked to whisper _San Giorgio_ in Nicolo’s ear, making him smile each time.

Since then, Nicolo would breathe out a quiet _Jirjis_ , never failing to make Yusuf blood boil with desire at the sound.

Since then, they set on trying to discover more about what their cultures have in common. Surprisingly, or not, really there were many common denominators.

*

While in Libya, they had caused a bit of commotion. They helped the fearful locals get rid of a horribly large, ungodly, toothy monster. They will later on learn it was called a crocodile, but for now the locals called it a _Water Dragon_. And after Nicolo had speared the creature, as Yusuf was cutting off its head to bring it as proof to the king, he jokingly told the witnesses to call their saviour _San Giorgio, the Dragon Slayer_. The crowd didn’t seem to be taken by it at the time, probably still slightly horrified by the monster.

And later, although they both behaved _scandalously_ , with Nicolo shushing him and Yusuf trying not to laugh as he presented Nicolo as _San Giorgio_ yet again, the king decided to reward them with his treasures, to thank them for saving his people. 

Nicolo and Yusuf gave it away to the poor; Yusuf explains to Nicolo all about _zakat_ and the importance of charity. 

And in a way, it was also the first step to begin atoning for all the killing they had committed in the last years. They promised each other, foreheads touching; _for each person we kill, we must save one_.

Two centuries later, as they travel across Europe, Yusuf finds a book, with a story that seems eerily familiar, as written down by Jacobus da Varagine's in his famed _Legenda aurea_. It describes Saint George, who spears a dragon to save a king’s daughter; for it is a time that every tale needs a princess. It also has a charmingly Christian twist to it. Da Varagine recounts, that after Saint George gives away the king’s reward to the poor crowd, it makes them feel gratitude so strong that they convert to Christianity. 

Nicolo seems equally embarrassed as he is amused by the dramatic reading of the tale that Yusuf subjects him to on one early evening, while they kill time in Vitré. Then, Nicolo reads it out loud again, and they correct the dialogue and the made up parts.

Funnily enough, in comparison with their other meddling with history, such as their involvement in any of the wars, or other mortal affairs, the San Giorgio accident doesn’t seem to fade, or go away. Languages, nations, lands, and whole species disappear in the complexity of the history, yet _San Giorgio_ , _Jirjis_ , remains. For some reason, as it had turned out, multiple nations wanted a dragon slayer as their patron. In the centuries to come, wherever Nicolo and Yusuf, or _Nicky_ and _Joe,_ wouldn’t go - England, Sweden, Russia - their tender, inside joke seems to follow them. And in many countries, it is blown out of proportions, and sung into legends; build into churches, and cathedrals, and painted onto altars and canvases. 

And not many seem to remember the actual _Saint George’_ s, or _Jirjis_ ’ humble beginning and martyrdom. That they were just pious followers of their God, murdered for their unwavering faith. That they existed simultaneously, for ages, and then were used to aid two sides of a war. A war whose followers thought they were the only ones deserving of a patronage of a holy man. As the two cultures clashed, they shouted out the same name, in different languages.

Probably, on the account of the many nations, the Dragon Slayer was more exciting, thus worth of more celebration.

*

On Nile’s request, they take her on a cultural tour around the countries that she isn't too familiar with. It’s nice to see that she’s hungry for knowledge, and much more willing to learn about other religions and cultures than Nicky was at her age; but then, times change. 

With Jordan as one of the stops, they lead her down the busy, loud and lively streets of the _souqs_ in Amman, and Joe shows her around Abu Darwish Mosque. Then, both of them take her to Ahl Al-Kahf. As they walk the tunnels, they tell her the story of the _Seven Sleepers_ , of the youth who, while escaping religious persecution, find cover in the caves, and won’t leave until 300 hundred years later.

“One of numerous stories shared in both Christian and Islam beliefs,” contributes Nicky. “And a _huge_ inspiration for many artists.”

At that, Joe takes his hand, takes a deep breath, and looking slightly mad, yet divine, he recites quietly:

“ _I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I_

_Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?_

_But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?_

_Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den_?”

When done, Joe sends a toothy smile Nicky’s way, and Nicky’s eyes are glinting as he smiles back. Then, he is leaning into a kiss, and whispers something to Joe that Nile doesn’t quite catch.

So Nile ponders over the verses she just heard, and while looking around the caves, asks them if this is how it felt, back then, to find each other in the middle of the Crusade, and learn the similarities over divides. 

Yusuf says: “It was similar, and absolutely different.” 

Nile tells him to stop pretending to be Andy; one person who’s allergic to responding to anything in a straightforward manner is enough for their group.

After that, they take her to see Madaba, too. They show her the Saint George Church, among other things; they tell her the original story of the dragon slaying legend, the one they contributed to.

Nile laughs for days afterward, and for the continuation of their trip across the continents, she always remembers to take a photo of each altar, and each painting that features Saint George the Dragon Slayer. Decades later, as her collection nears completion, she makes Nicky sit through a full day Powerpoint presentations titled _Nicolo and the Odd Portrayal of his Features through the Ages_.

Joe loses it over the _Narga Selassie_ church painting, and asks Nile to make it into his background photo, as he feels it depicts their, infamous now, adventure best.

“I’m pretty sure I actually sat in a tree, cheering on, as Nicky killed that crocodile” says Joe, swallowing back laughter, bubbling up in his throat.

Andy looks up at that. “I don’t think they got your _hair_ that well.” 

*

Since then, Nile makes them celebrate the 23rd of April every year. She makes a big deal out of it, too. Doesn’t matter if their immortal family is scattered at the time; they make a point to meet together for the celebration.

And every year, Nile and Andy, and Booker, and Joe and Nicky raise their glasses, wherever they are, and look at each other, as they exchange smiles, and salute to _Jirjis_ and _San Giorgio_. 

Surrounded by their found family, and cocooned in the devotion and love that is much older than the story of the saint whose day they chose to celebrate.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Poem that Joe recites, and that I used for the title is John Donne’s ‘The Good-Morrow’.  
> The painting that Joe wants for his background:  
> https://www.alamy.com/mural-of-st-george-and-the-dragon-in-narga-selassie-church-lake-tana-ethiopia-image332808125.html
> 
> \Ummm, this came to my mind after talking with @thanksillpass. I'm pretty sure she was the one who said that Nicky probably thought at first he must've been anointed by God, and we came to a conclusion that he must've been pretty damn disappointed when he saw someone on the other side was also blessed with this privilege.
> 
> I know it says in the comics that they were the ones that killed each other for the first time; I thought it would make it more compelling if I rewrote that slightly. After all, they don't have to be alone in their immortality, still; instead, they can go on, head to head, until they can learn how to talk to each other.  
> Tried to make it compliant with what history seems to remember - so, the way the wins of the First Crusade were seen as miracles(even though it was much more complicated than that, and had to do not so much with the Crusaders as with the political situation of the East); or how the Crusaders spirits rose with the finding of the fake spear, etc. 
> 
> I spent probably five times longer researching this than actually typing. So sorry if I heavily leaned onto Nicky's POV for a long time; this is actually the first time in my life that I considered Crusades from non the European Christian perspective, so as much as I wanted to present Joe's side as well, felt way out of my comfort zone in the end. And didn't think a week of research would make it justice ; - )
> 
> It was a very interesting experience, having been brought up in an ultra Catholic country, with my native literature heavily and often inspired by the Crusaders; so the vision of them was very specifically Christian in my mind. And, living in Europe, my understanding of history is very, very European-Christian centered, as well. So even it was very brief, I loved everything I learned doing the research for this.
> 
> Of course, I apologise terribly for any factual errors, or misspellings of any names. The comments are open for everyone, after all.


End file.
